Members of the Wedding
by ardavenport
Summary: Jedi don't do weddings ... usually
1. Chapter 1

**MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 1**

* * *

Rrrrrrr-rrroooonnnnngggggg.

Qui-Gon Jinn opened his eyes. And saw the fluffy, powder blue canopy above, gray in the night-time gloom of the room.

Rrrrrrr-rrroooonnnnngggggg.

It had to be the door summons to the suite. Pushing aside the soft coverings, he rolled over on the padded, raised sleeping mat and slid over to the edge. Grabbing the dark mass of his Jedi robe, he swept aside the diaphanous curtains and stood. He stretched out one arm behind him and his lightsaber flew up into his hand from where it had rested next to his pillow. He tucked it into a long inner pocket of the robe.

The light coming in through panes of the tall peaked windows from Saffast's brilliant night sky was enough to see by. The door to the private chamber slid aside for him as he shrugged his robe on over his plain sleeping shift. Other than the urgency at the door, he sensed no other disturbance in the castle other than the expectation of the day's celebrations.

Bare feet on the cool polished floor, he crossed the outer sitting room to the suite's entryway. His Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, stood similarly attired in the doorway of the other chamber.

Qui-Gon raised his hand. A Force impression of the control panel on the wall across the entryway grazed his fingertips. The light on it beeped a glowing green. White light came on from above. He folded his arms inside the sleeves of his robe as the wide golden door slid aside.

"Oh!" Dirrim Dirchard, the Archbishop's Steward, let out a little gasp, obviously startled by the Jedi standing several paces back in the room, under the entryway light. The heavyset, older man blushed pink in his cheeks and chin and hastily bowed. The pinkness went all the way up to his balding head. The Saffisti were Humanoid with all their limbs and facial features in the most common places, but their highly variable skin-color was rumored to be a remnant of some unrecorded shape-shifters in their long distant past.

"Master Jedi, my apologies for calling at this early hour. But a . . . uuh . . . situation has come up concerning the nuptials tomorrow. Today, actually. And I believe that you might be able to help us with it."

"Certainly. We are here to serve." Qui-Gon nodded to the jittery official. Steward Dirchard's facial colors faded back into his usual neutral and diplomatic gray.

He waved a hand at the wall panel again and the rest of the room lights came up. Dirchard startled again with a new pink flush to his face, but Qui-Gon ignored it.

When they sat down on opposite sides of the low table in the social area, Dirchard's skin color had gone back to formal and unemotional gray. The low cushioned chairs and settees formed a circle under tall windows that curved upward, blending into the skylight, allowing an excellent view of the brilliant display of stars. Obi-Wan silently sat next to Qui-Gon. Though he was twenty-two, an experienced and senior Padawan, Dirchard had favored the Master with his attention at the pre-wedding reception the night before and he did so again now.

"Again, Master Jedi, please forgive me for disturbing you at this hour. But it seems that the Bishop of Swigley has sent his regrets. He cannot perform the ceremony tomorrow. Or rather, will not."

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows. "Has he been threatened?"

"He wouldn't say, but that is strongly implicated."

"Can the Archbishop perform the service?"

"No, tradition forbids her from performing a marriage service for anyone in her immediate family."

"You have been unable to convince another member of your order to perform the ceremony?"

"Alas, not of sufficient rank." His face sighed into a more featureless ashen-gray. "Though I am sure the Monk of Kammi would be delighted to step in, his presence would be too much of a distraction if that drunken fool officiated. And there are too many people who would simply laugh." Pale orange flushed his cheeks before vanishing. The Jedi had not been introduced, but they had seen the Monk dancing on a table at the pre-nuptual reception attended by all the arriving dignitaries the night before. The Saffasti around them had been been either amused or disgusted.

"That is regrettable," Qui-Gon answered sympathetically, "but I fail to see how we can help. If you are concerned about security for the wedding and wish assistance from the Republic, you should speak with Senator Chochard immediately - - "

Hands raised, Dirchard stopped him. "No, please Master Jedi, expanding our security arrangements would only expand the problem. Most of the threats are just hot gas, coming from people who would never act on them and the few who would act have been detained. But there still remains the possibility of someone, with more money and power than sense, hiring an off-worlder to do harm to the Archbishop."

"If you believe that the greatest danger is from hired off-worlders then that is even more reason to discuss this with Senator Chochard."

Again, the Steward shook his head, hands raised. "No, please, Master Jedi. The political situation is delicately balanced. The Archbishop has a majority who will accept her son's dis-inheritance. But if any outside power is seen, that could change in an instant. Of course. . . ." Dirchard's eyes narrowed, " . . . . the Chancellor seems to have considered the possibility of covert help by sending you."

Qui-Gon showed no reaction to this speculation. "We have merely been sent to represent Coruscant at the Archbishops son's wedding. If the problem is security, you should speak with Senator Chochard first." Their orders were to only help the Zembu if they were directly asked. Or if someone happened to try assassinating the Archbishop right in front of them. But neither Jedi had sensed any serious danger since arriving and security looked adequately tight at the castle and the reception.

"Really? And do you think that Senator Chochard will be conscious at this hour? Or appreciate being roused to do any special favors for the Archbishop?"

Qui-Gon frowned. The Saffasti Senator had spoken derisively about the coming change and then later, after drinking great quantities of intoxicants at the reception, inebirately proclaimed that Archbishop Nealdine was a heretic who would get what she deserved if the galaxy had any justice in it.

"Well," Dirchard said, his facial color going to slate gray. "The Archbishop's security is not exactly what I came to you for." He folded his hands together. "You see, as a Jedi Knight, you have the curious dual position as keeper of the peace for the Republic and . . . . clergy. And as such it is possible that you could perform the wedding service today."

Qui-Gon's eyes widened.

"Steward Dirchard, Jedi do _not_ perform marriage services. The Jedi are not a ceremonial order - - "

Again, the Steward held up a hand to interrupt. "Yes, yes, I am aware of that. However, from what I understand of Jedi ethics, coupled with your status, education and oaths of service, those all make you eligible to be elevated to the Zembu Order. At least . . . " His words, coming out all in a rush, paused long enough to appraise Qui-Gon's reaction. " . . . long enough to preside over the ceremony."

Sitting back, Qui-Gon glanced toward his young apprentice. Seated next to him on the settee in his pale sleeping shift and robe, Obi-Wan minimally shrugged, blue-gray eyes equally surprised.

"Would an off-worlder performing the service not cause just as many complications for the Archbishop's political situation?"

"No," the Steward shook his head, "The Jedi are accepted neutrals and a multi-species Order in which Saffasti have served in the past, though, regrettably not at the moment. And you do have all the clerical qualifications."

"You are sure you have no other substitute for the Bishop of Swigley for this . . . . duty?"

Dirchard's face and hands remained gray. "Most of our highest ranking members oppose the Archbishop's proclamation - - thought the populace is strongly with her - - and the others are only willing to accept it, but nothing more. And none of them have . . . .your unique qualifications. . . . To be honest, if any of these rumored off-world assassins made an attempt on Archbishop Nealdine's life during her own son's wedding, they would find it a bit more difficult if you were in the immediate vicinity."

The Saffasti did not want Republic help . . . . but they did.

Qui-Gon finally nodded to Dirchard. "We come to serve."

The Steward flushed a faint and controlled green, only on his cheeks. "Thank-you. Of course, you must be invested by the Archbishop to perform the ceremony, which should be only a formality."

"I will need to review the ceremony, if I am to credibly perform this service for you."

"Of course. I have already arranged for an archive droid to come with a servitor with an early breakfast for you. It will have all the data you should require. And now . . . ." He pushed himself up off the chair cushions. ". . . . I have many more arrangements to make today."

As he hurried to the door, a new thought occurred to Qui-Gon.

"Steward."

He stopped and turned.

"Does the Archbishop actually know of this plan?"

Dirchard's complexion paled with surprise before he regained his composure.

"I was just about to inform her of it."

He hurried out, the golden door sliding closed behind him.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 2**

"Master?"

He looked down at his apprentice.

"Have you ever officiated at a wedding before?"

"No. I have not had the honor." Slapping his knees with his hands, he got up from the settee and Obi-Wan stood with him. "In the meantime, we must dress and prepare. I believe that it will be a long day."

They each went to their own chambers. Qui-Gon's was decorated in pale blues and greens, with soft woven rugs and patterned walls of floating, fruited and flowering vines. The fresher was almost as big as the spacious sleeping area with bright white and blue tiles with purple accents, a large dressing area on the side and one wall entirely mirrored. His small travel pack sat alone in the middle of a wall of empty white shelves in the storage area. His clothes had already been cleaned and hung by the valet droid's alcove.

"May I be of service, Sir?" The machine, Aoli-One-Four, was already activated, anticipating him.

Most service and protocol droids were made with the body shape of their Masters, whatever species that might be. But for some reason, this one was modeled as a plant with legs. Its 'face' was a mass of plastoid leaves, its sensors and indicators blinking from amidst the foliage. Its arms were bendable stems with manipulator fingers hidden in the greenery. It seemed competent enough to perform its limited duties and its metallic colors did match the colors of the suite, but otherwise the design seemed quite impractical.

Qui-Gon shook his head. "No, I do not need assistance. However, a meal and an archive droid are being sent. Please go to the outer room to let them in when they arrive."

"Very good, Sir." The leaves rustled as Aoli-One-Four's top bowed and it left.

Going to a long white counter decorated with curling aqua vines, he selected the various scented cleansers that Aoli-One-Four had laid out for him. He had no particular interest in the selections, but he had found that the best way to get a droid out from underfoot was to give it something to do, especially servitors. He quickly washed at the shower wall opposite the counter, the hot air jets then blowing him dry. Glancing at the mirror wall, he deemed the result acceptable and then went to dress.

When he emerged from his suite, he found Aoli-One-Four facing off with a flowering bush on legs. It had to be the suite's other valet, for Obi-Wan's sleeping chamber.

"Well, you must not be trying very hard," Aoli-One-Four said with a jarringly critical tone. "My Lord seems quite pleased with my services. He was just complimenting me on them."

Agitated, the bush's plastoid red flowers and buds trembled. "My Lord's tastes are quite spare and simple. Elegantly so, I might add."

"Well, my Lord is far more elegant than - - "

Qui-Gon cleared his throat and both droid-plants hopped to attention with rustling plastoid leaves.

"Has the archive droid arrived?" The sitting area was fully lit now, the sky still dark through the tall windows over the two sets of comfortable red and gold chairs around a low table on opposite sides of the room. Qui-Gon saw no other droids, but these two might have left it waiting outside the door.

"No, my Lord, it has not. My most profuse apologies - - "

"Then please attend to it," Qui-Gon cut off Aoli-One-Four. "Quietly. Both of you. We will be meeting with the Archbishop early and we must be ready."

"Of course, my Lord."

"Very good, Sir."

The two bowed as well as plant-shaped droids could and went to a wall data panel. Then they seemed to have a hushed argument about which of them would plug into the data terminal, but it was quiet enough to ignore. Qui-Gon wondered if they had been designed to dislike each other or perhaps it was just bad programming.

Obi-Wan emerged from his room, fully dressed and attaching his lightsaber to his belt. He grimaced at the two machines, but said nothing.

"The archive droid has not arrived yet. I told the valets to attend to it, quietly. That should keep them busy." Qui-Gon went to the neared setting of low chairs. Tossing his robe onto the back of one chair, he sat down. The seat and back were soft and he sank low in it, but he could still bring his legs up and cross them. Resting his forearms on his knees, he closed his eyes. Obi-Wan did the same; he needed no prompting. This was their usual morning routine at the Jedi Temple.

The Archbishop's castle, the Zembunor, was nearly as large as the Temple back on Coruscant and likewise surrounded by a city. But the Saffasti's capital city only occupied part of a forested valley on their world, it's population only a few million, unlike the trillions that occupied the city-world at the center of the Galactic Republic. Most of the people in the Zembunor were still asleep. Among the early risers, there was . . . . anticipation, excitement, some fearfulness, agitation . . . . but nothing dire. Nothing dangerous. Yet.

Qui-Gon felt no imminent danger through the Force and he sensed that his Padawan did not either. But there was an ominous rustling nearby . . . .

He opened one glaring eye at the leafy, fretting droids next to him.

"There, you see, you disturbed him," the flowering bush accused.

"No, you did!"

"No - - "

"Has the archive droid arrived?"

"Yes, my Lord, it has!" Aoli-One-Four answered first. "It has arrived along with your morning repast - - "

"Then please, escort it in. And then both of you may withdraw to your duties in our sleeping chambers. We do not expect to return until late tonight." Qui-Gon had no idea how late they would be; he just wanted to get rid of the droids.

Aoli-One-Four and his fellow valet went to the door (there was a little pushing between them) and let in a squat archive droid and two food servitors before going in opposite directions to their rooms.

The food servitors were conventionally humanoid-shaped droids in spotless white plastoid and glowing silver eye-sensors. Between them, they had a small floater loaded up with a mini-banquet. They swiftly set up standing trays and laid out the dishes on the low table in their sitting area.

Click! clink! clack-clack-clack! thunk! Click-click-click! Clink-clink!

In a flurry of culinary efficiency, the tray in front of both Jedi filled up with more then a dozen selections in small bowls and compartmented plates and cups. After presenting final green garnishes to the place settings, the droids then excused themselves to wait outside to be called when their guests were finished.

"It's a shame Aoli-One-Seven isn't programmed like those two." Obi-Wan picked up a biscuit. "I had to send it out here to keep it from helping me with getting dressed."

Qui-Gon smiled. The Jedi Temple had droids, of course. But they were for maintaining the functions of the Temple only. None of them acted as personal servants.

They ate, sampling the different dishes while the archive droid answered their questions about what was necessary for Qui-Gon's initiation, however temporary, into the Zembu Order, along with the details of the ceremony he would preside over.

By the time they were finished, the Steward's protocol droid, Zee-Three, came to take them to the Archbishop. In the tall windows of their suite, the sky was just beginning to lighten with morning.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING**

by ardavenport

**- - - Part 3**

* * *

The sky overhead was bright blue, but the sun was still short of rising. The two Jedi stood together in what was called the 'Iron Garden', an enclosed courtyard of dull red gravel paths lined by low reddish-orange leafed plants and rust-colored, hanging mosses on what looked like dead trees. It even smelled like metal that had sat in a hot sun. The dull orange gravel under Obi-Wan's boots crunched as he again looked around them.

"Patience, my young Padawan," Qui-Gon counseled him, "I'm sure the Archbishop has her reasons for the delay."

Looking chagrined, Obi-Wan tucked his arms into the sleeves of his robe. "Yes, Master."

The tops of the castle towers had brightened with the first rays of sunlight before a heavy metal door in the wall opposite them banged open. The Archbishop and her party emerged. There was Archbishop Nealdine Croton-Ichard and her consort, Armitig Croton-Ichard, the Steward, plus Zee-Three and the Archbishop's protocol droid. The short gray and white archive droid that had been sent to their suite earlier came out last.

Archbishop Nealdine huffed as she crossed the rust-colored courtyard, her enormous breasts bouncing under her flowing blue body tunic and robes, trimmed in gold. She was short with a somewhat spherical body type. In contrast, her husband was tall and trim with an athletic build. They were both in their late middle years, about Qui-Gon's age in appearance. Her straight black hair was shoulder length with a blue patch on the right. His hair was a dignified, graying brown. His skin tone was as gray and diplomatic as the steward's. But the Archbishop made no secret of her agitation. Vivid orange tinted her bright magenta cheeks. She stopped before them and tugged down on her long tunic. The orange hues faded.

"Master Qui-Gon, I regret to involve you and your acolyte in our intrigues, but I am grateful for your assistance with this . . . scheme that my Steward has concocted." She gave her underling a cross look and the orange briefly flared on her cheeks. "In order to at least try to put a plausible face on this farce I have been cramming Jedi since breakfast. If we may?" She gestured toward an outdoor setting of sturdy rusty blocks around a round table under an equally rusty canopy.

"Of course, your Grace. We come to serve." Both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan bowed before following her.

When they were all seated, Qui-Gon was opposite the Archbishop, her consort sat back from the table on her right side; the Steward stood on her right. Obi-Wan sat next to his Master on his right. The droids took positions behind the Archbishop. The archive droid took a position at the table, it's recorders glowing and humming in all directions. The two protocol droids were very conventionally humanoid-shaped units, the Steward's was metallic gray, emblazoned with a yellow flower surrounded by a green vine. The Archbishop's droid was iridescent pearly white emblazoned with what looked like an overflowing bucket with a multi-colored puddle underneath. She took a few deep breaths and most of her facial colors wiped away into gray in an impressive display of control though a hint of magenta remained on her cheeks.

"Now." She rested her arms on the rusty tabletop. "First, have you reviewed the ceremony?"

"Of course." Qui-Gon nodded.

"Good. We will go over all that, after your investiture. IF I find you acceptable." This last part seemed to be aimed at the Steward who did not react.

"Now, I have reviewed your biographical details - - the Jedi Temple seems to have been very accommodating to my Steward's emergency request this morning - - and the general details of Jedi training. . . . " She raised a finger.

Nothing happened.

The Archbishop cleared her throat loudly.

"Oh! Oh! You mean me!" the pearly droid exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. It waved it's arms a bit uselessly.

"Yes, Zee-Em. I do."

"Oh, good. I'm so glad I caught your signal, your Grace."

Tight-lipped, the Archbishop sucked in air, her cheeks and forehead tinting orange. "Yes. And what does that signal mean?" Her voice rose with a tone of strained sweetness. Her consort sat with a look of patient suffering.

"That I am supposed to present this data holo," the droid held up a small hand-held projector, "with the archive data about the Jedi and the data about Master Qui-Gon forwarded from Coruscant." The droid sounded terribly pleased with itself even though it wasn't doing anything useful.

"And you were going to do that, maybe, sometime today?"

Zee-Em's head swiveled toward the holo-projector and then toward the Archbishop. "Oh!" It finally hopped forward, placed it on the table and withdrew. A display of text and diagrams, glowing in yellow and white lines, activated in the air above it.

The Archbishop sighed. The colored parts of her face smoothed back toward a featureless gray again. "I inherited it from my mother," the Archbishop said by way of explanation, her eyes flicking back towards the droid. "We Zembu clergy are very big on family and . . . . tradition."

She turned her full attention to the data. " . . . . . it appears that you DO meet all the qualifications for investiture. You have no possessions at all, other what you're wearing?"

"No, none," Qui-Gon answered. "Possessions are forbidden by the Jedi Code."

"Yes, I had time to review that, too. That part of it certainly makes things simpler with you not having to divest anything . . . embarrassing that a priest wouldn't have." She inhaled deeply, her complexion going completely gray. "And your education is certainly . . . . adequate. You've been training for your current position since you were . . . " her eyes followed a line of text scrolling in the air " . . . less than a standard year old. That has been awhile.

"You maintain good health. You vow to uphold justice in spirit and in legality. Defend the innocent. Sacrifice your own life for the greater good, if necessary." Her finger stopped at the end of a list. Well," she waved her hand and this time the droid acted promptly, snapping the projector off and taking it away, "that takes care of the preliminary qualifications. You pass all of them. Exceed quite a few, in fact.

"I declare you a worthy candidate." She inclined her head and smiled. "Do you concur, my dear Steward?"

"Oh absolutely, your Grace. An exceptional candidate."

"Now," she sat back, folding her arms over her considerable blue-clad bosom, "let's get down to business." The gray of her face was the color of a cloud in a bitterly cold atmosphere.

"Tradition demands that I find you compatible with at least three major aspects of Zembu philosophy to declare you acceptable to be a member of our Order. However briefly that might be." She paused, gazing at the air above Qui-Gon's head. "Have you noticed how many times these things have to be done in threes? Those old sages really liked the number three, didn't they? I sometimes wonder if they couldn't count any higher. . . "

The Steward cleared his throat. "If I might be allowed to remind you; we have quite a lot to do today. Our time is limited."

She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. "Yes, I know." She gave Qui-Gon a penetrating look. "I have studied Jedi philosophy before," she stated, her tone lowering. "The Jedi believe that the whole universe is filled with life energy. Even things that aren't obviously living. Like this furniture, or the ground, or my discarded toenail clippings, or the vast spaces between the stars . . . or between some people's ears. Is that right?"

"There might be some debate about your toenail clippings, your Grace. But yes, it is."

Nealdine opened her mouth but Qui-Gon continued.

"I have reviewed your philosophies as well, and the Zembu also believe that everything is alive."

"Well, you've got me there," she admitted. "Though there are some who argue that some things are only . . . . poetically alive." She frowned. "At the very least we do believe that everything should be _treated_ as if it is alive."

"Then it would appear that the Jedi and the Zembu are in agreement on this point."

"True." She nodded. "But that was an easy one. The second one is a little stickier."

Around them, the Iron Garden lightened with oranges and dark gritty reds. They heard noises from the open windows above. It was full morning.

Nealdine leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her hands folded under her round chin.

"Tell me, Master Qui-Gon, you are forbidden from forming any personal attachments whatsoever, not even with your own acolyte." She narrowed her eyes at Obi-Wan, her first acknowledgment that he was even there. "Isn't that a bit . . . . severe?"

"No."

Qui-Gon saw her waiting for him to say more. He remained silent, relaxed, his hands in his lap, his expression neutral. He saw her silently debating whether she would allow him to force her to ask for more, though her face remained a uniform gray. Then she gave in to the time constraint of the impending wedding.

"Please enlighten me."

"The Jedi are in many ways far more 'attached' to the world around them, through the life energies of the Force, than many others. It is what gives the Jedi their power. However, the Jedi must always be aware that this power does not exist to serve them, but for the good of the world around them. If the Jedi have no material attachments, no emotional attachments, no ambitions, no favorites . . . the path of service is far clearer.

"But if the Jedi is attached to places, property, people, that path becomes clouded with the things they want. Their service, their use of the powers of the Force becomes colored by that, until they serve only what they want, and the power that that they use to get it. That is the path to the Dark Side. Which inevitably leads to destruction, of anything or anyone that the Jedi once favored. Until that Jedi is destroyed as well."

"Hmmmm." The Archbishop pressed her lips together. Her cheeks, still gray, darkened thoughtfully. "The duality in Jedi philosophy is exceptionally strong. Everything is dark and light for you. Good or bad. You don't ever settle anywhere . . . . in between?"

Qui-Gon shook his head.

"No. The power of the Force can be used to serve the Light or the Dark. But not both."

Nealdine narrowed her eyes at him. "So, attachments, any type of attachment, lead to . . . . darkness?"

Qui-Gon sighed, relenting a little. "There is considerable debate within the Jedi Order about the definition of 'attachment'. One could say that we are all 'attached' to living, for example."

"Well, without that particular 'attachment' we wouldn't all be here discussing this, would we?"

Qui-Gon nodded. "We would not."

"Well," the Archbishop sat back, "the Zembu prize, even exalt, some of our attachments. Particularly, to family." She smiled toward her consort, her cheeks flushing blue and red, the colors in two separate, distinct patches. He responded in kind.

"However." The colors vanished, her eyes returning to Qui-Gon. "We do allow for eccentric 'lifestyles' among our members. Hermits who give everything away and go off by themselves to suffer and write poetry in a cave. That kind of thing. And since your motives for renouncing all attachments is selfless and noble, I suppose I can give it a pass. Don't you think, Steward?"

"Certainly, your Grace."

Looking pleased with herself, but showing none of it in her facial colors, she nodded to Qui-Gon. "Now, that's two you've got. I think that the third one should be just a bit harder. . . ." She rubber her chin thoughtfully. Qui-Gon patiently waited.

"About this service you mentioned. . . .the Jedi vow to use all their powers to serve the common good?"

"They do, your Grace."

"They vow to sacrifice their very lives for others, if need be?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"But serving others might also include doing little things like . . . . . chopping people up with your light swords?" She enunciated each syllable of 'chopping people up' with a tense smile.

Qui-Gon took a careful breath. The Zembu clergy renounced all forms of violence.

"That does happen occasionally, your Grace."

"And have you ever . . . ?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. Any embellishment beyond the simple, brutal truth could be taken as an attempt to divert her attention from it or lessen its importance, which would be evasive at best, dishonest at worst. Both Jedi and Zembu vowed to be honest.

"Lately?"

"No. Not lately." At least, he hadn't killed anyone in the past few years.

"I see." Grimacing, she bared her teeth at him. "And what do you have to say about it?"

* * *

**- - - End Part 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 4**

Qui-Gon took in a long, slow breath and let it out. "A Jedi never seeks to kill, your Grace. Never." There were always distasteful rumors that the Republic used the Jedi as assassins and he wanted to definitely refute that idea, if that was what she was thinking. "The Jedi Code demands that we use the powers of the Force for the good of others. We train in the Jedi arts to do so from a very young age. And while those arts include diplomacy and the powers of the mind, they also include fighting. We do not exclude violence from our methods, because it is not the act that leads to the Dark Side; it is the intention."

The Archbishop's expression slowly turned more rigidly critical, but Qui-Gon could not really sense any of her thoughts at all; they were a gray wall.

"So, Master Qui-Gon, when you are going about doing good for others, what sort of circumstances must occur for you to decide that someone else must die for the greater good?"

"None, your Grace. Unless that person is myself. My own life is the only one that I may _decide_ to forfeit. But in a conflict, my hand is guided by the Force. And if another person dies or lives, at my hand, then it is through the will of the Force."

"The will of the Force? Oh, well that's a handy excuse," she muttered, her gaze lowering. "I'm sure that the people who die are greatly comforted to know that you did not _intend_ to kill them. Tell me, Master Qui-Gon, if the Force is in a particularly peevish mood that morning, does that mean you're allowed a higher body count?"

Qui-Gon frowned at her flippancy. "The Force does not have 'moods'. It is the life force that binds the universe together, its power infinite, its purposes is unknowable."

"Really? Well, then if you don't know what the Force is up to, then how do you even know if you're on the Light Side at all? Especially with you chopping people up and all that."

A corner of his mouth quirked upward. "We know we serve the Light because we know that we do not know if the Force truly has a will; its nature is unknowable."

The Archbishop stared back, her mouth a tight horizontal line. He smiled back, but her thoughts were still as blank as stone to him. The courtyard brightened, corroded oranges and reds accented with withered tans and browns. Something buzzed among the plants in the growing warmth.

The Steward cleared his throat. The Archbishop remained motionless, but her eyes shifted toward him.

"So," the Archbishop sat back, folding her arms before her, "let me see if I've got this. The Jedi believe that if you start acquiring, say, teacups, you will fall into a spiral of dark and destructive teacup attachment that will inevitably lead to death and galactic woe for yourself and everyone around you. But not if you actually kill another person. Is that right?"

Pressing his lips together, Qui-Gon paused before answering.

"Yes."

No other words came to him. There wasn't much else for hm to add. The Archbishop had made a valid point even if she used a ridiculous example.

"Well . . . . your point about knowing that you don't know the unknowable could have come right out of the Book of Zlattni. In fact, it did. But I assume that the Jedi did not intentionally plagiarize it. But the people-chopping really is a problem . . . . "

"Your Grace - - " The Steward's complexion was looking a little splotchy on the cheeks and forehead. Nealdine held up a hand.

"But." She aimed the word back at the Steward. Huffing, she sat her large bulk up straighter on her block.

"I appreciate your honesty, Master Qui-Gon. That, along with your serving others while not knowing the unknown, I think just puts you over the top on the third point. And . . . . the more liberally traditional branches of our Order," she pronounced this a little dismissively, "do allow for a bit of violence in extreme stress – like needing to bump off heretics like meeeeee . . . and . . . . as Supreme Archbishop of the whole Zembu priesthood, I am endowed with the power of forgiveness."

She pushed herself up from the table. Qui-Gon stood.

"So," she held up one hand, index and middle fingers raised. "I forgive and absolve you," her fingers made a circle, "for your life of mayhem and people-chopping. Try not to do it again." Beside them, the Steward audibly sighed. Looking amused, Obi-Wan stood as well.

Qui-Gon inclined his head. "Thank-you, your Grace. Is that all?"

"Oh, no, now we have to do the investiture. We've got to make this official." She gestured. "Stand before me, over here."

They moved away from the table to an intersection of paths in the courtyard. The air had warmed noticeably and more things were buzzing amidst the stunted, hardy shrubbery. The archive droid, humming and beeping, its sensors still glowing, rolled to position itself beside them.

A cheerful green skin-tone wiped away her gray complexion so quickly that Qui-Gon's eyes widened. She wiggled her brows back at him. "Now, I think that we can dispense with the three days of fasting and chanting, the three deeds of heroism, the three trials - - did I mention how hung up tradition seems to be on threes?" She waved that aside. "Because of our very tight time constraints, and so the Steward won't burst right here and now, I think we can just cut right to the oath."

Dirchard sighed again. "Thank-you, your Grace."

Nealdine raised her hands.

"Please, lower your head."

Qui-Gon inclined his head to her.

"Where I can reach it."

"Oh."

He bowed very low to the short woman. She laid her small hands on the top of his head.

"Do you, Qui-Gon Jinn, vow to uphold all that is sacred to the Zembu, to be honest, thoughtful, sympathetic, empathetic and practical, to lend your strength to those in need of it, to be honest to others as well as to yourself, and to not chop people up with your light sword?"

"I do your Grace."

"Stand and face me."

He did so.

"I appoint you Priest of the Zembu and High Vicar of Wutah and Holder of the Keys of the Vaults of Balstule."

Qui-Gon tilted his head. "High Vicar/"

"Well, I've got to give you some kind of rank to do this wedding. Don't worry, the High Vicar died last year. I just haven't found a good replacement because no one wants to live in a drafty old fort on Wutah at the pole. She pointed at the Steward. "But we've got to get him a set of keys for the ceremony. Make sure they look good."

The Steward bowed. "I shall see to it immediately."

"Oooooooooohhhhhh! Deenee, Deenee, Deenee!"

They all startled and turned toward the sudden outburst.

A woman of medium height came at them, enormous sleeves fluttering behind her. A taller woman, with even taller slate colored hair followed. The Archbishop grimaced, her cheeks passing though multiple shades of pale pink as the woman came at her, seizing her in a hug and kissing her cheeks.

"Oooooooh, I am soooooooo sorry this has happened to you! This is terrible, terrible! I just heard that old Swiggy has canceled!" Kiss, kiss. "How could he be so thoughtless! There's just no loyalty in the clergy these days! I had to come right away to comfort you, my little sister, in this moment of terrible disgrace for you! Teeeerrrrible!"

The Archbishop, her consort and the Steward coldly remained unaffected by the theatrics, their faces gray, but their thoughts obvious. They had been hoping to avoid this person. Qui-Gon exchanged a look with his Padawan. They had met her the night before at the reception.

She was Trahina Croton, the hereditary Mistress of Protocol of the Zembu Order. Her companion was Vossi Oto, though she did not seem to have any official title. They had made themselves memorable to the Jedi at the reception by loudly criticizing them for being far too under-dressed to represent Coruscant. Now, no longer wearing her huge jeweled headdress, collar and robes, she waved her arms and insincerely bemoaned the Archbishop's misfortune.

"But really Deenee, this is a sign! It's a sign! You really don't need to relinquish all your lovely powers to usurp the government on a whim. Really, they need to have their backsides kicked out from under them every now and then anyway." She muttered the last part, her face, neck and hands striped in alternating orange and green. She wore a white flowing kaftan and pants with edges decorated with abstract multicolored shapes. A blue and red beaded scarf was wrapped around her middle under a roll of fat and fabric; the fringe on it clicked whenever she moved. Though Trahina Croton was nowhere near as rotund as her sister, she was stout in the body and almost a head taller.

"Terrible shame, absolutely terrible that the wedding will have to be canceled," Vossi Oto said with tight-lipped glee, her cheeks practically glowing with green triumph, her eyes and lips painted with precise and sharp black lines. The rest of her exposed skin matched her face. As far as Qui-Gon could tell, she wore the same shiny metallic blue boots, skimpy short skirt and half-shirt that she had on the previous night. He arms were covered, but her shirt clung to her low on her chest, exposing the top rounds of her breasts and part of her torso under that.

"We've got a replacement," Nealdine stated under Trahina's frantic babble.

Almost falling forward over the Archbishop, Trahina Croton kept going, "We'll just have to call the whole thing off - - "

Trahina froze.

"What?" The colors froze and went pale on Trahina Croton's face. "What? What do you mean? What, what, did you say? A replacement? A replacement? What, what, what does that mean?" She looked from Archbishop to Steward and all around. Vossi visibly paled.

"We have a replacement," Nealdine enunciated. She extended a hand to the Jedi. "Master Qui-Gon has graciously offered his services. So, the wedding will proceed as scheduled."

Trahina drew back. Both she and Vossi looked appalled, their skin going pale pink. Then Trahina seemed to recover, her face tinting into bright orange.

"What? What? You CAN'T use them! They're JEDI. They don't have any authority to marry anyone on this planet!"

"Too late. I've already invested them. Master Qui-Gon here is now the High Vicar of Wutah. At least today he is. At least as long as it takes for my son and his bride to get married."

Trahina patted her chest; her head and frazzled hair wobbled dramatically, as if this announcement might injure her somehow.

"How, how, how, how could you DO THAT?" She ran around in little panicked circles. "I can't believe it. I cannot BELIEVE that my sister, my OWN SISTER would bring in these - - these - - these COMMONERS into the Order!"

"Well, you're always telling me how I need to exercise my absolute powers more often. I've decided to take your advice. Today, at least," Nealdine answered casually.

Trahina huffed inarticulately, flapping her arms, turning in circles as if looking for an escape. Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows, but Qui-Gon minimally shook his head. This was obviously a family matter, nothing they needed to involve themselves with. But Trahina didn't seem to agree; she pointed an accusing finger at them.

"You absolutely CAN'T have them perform the service! Not looking like THAT anyway! I mean really? Look at them!" She bared her teeth in distaste. "It's absolutely unbelievable. Unbelievable! How could these two possible be sent as representatives of Coruscant?" The volume of her rant rose as she solidified her complaint. "They're BROWN! Two big, blobby, shapeless pillars of BROWN! A whole city-planet full of people walking around at the height, the pinnacle of fashion, just dripping with class and OOZING with the latest style, and what do we get?"

She straightened triumphantly, the robust criticism invigorating her. Both Jedi folded their arms before them, tucking their arms into the large opposite sleeves of their robes.

"The scrapings from the bottom of the Jedi Temple, I'd say! One fuzzy-headed, little brown minion," she spat toward Obi-Wan, "and one huge, towering brown load of long, limp-haired, sickly, mono-colored excreta!" She darted forward and grabbed a handful of Qui-Gon's robe; he remained perfectly still.

"Sacks! Sacks! They're wearing sacks!" She let go as if she had touched something slimy. "Uuuuuuhhhhh! Brown, ugly sacks!" She whirled on her frowning, gray-faced sister, who was as motionless as Qui-Gon. "We cannot have it! I am still Mistress of Protocol around here! I still have a say in this and I absolutely forbid it! He cannot marry my nephew to that sniping little witch and that's final!" She stamped her foot.

A bright orange tinge crept up the Archbishop's stout neck. And stopped. It faded into a pale blue over her whole face, a sly look in her eyes. Trahina took a step back away from her sister.

"That is true, my dear. You are the Hereditary Mistress of Protocol and this kind of problem is within your authority."

Her face and hand going pale magenta, Trahina nodded back uncertainly. "Well, yes. . . . of course I am," she replied with little confidence. Vossi frowned as well with a grayer shade of pale magenta.

"Yes. And I am the Supreme Archbishop of the Zembu. And as such, I command that YOU make them presentable for the ceremony."

Next to her, the Steward's face went bright magenta for a second before he seemed to shift it back toward gray again. "Ah, you Grace - -"

Without even looking at him, Nealdine held up a hand to silence him. Her eyes stayed on Trahina, who had gone bright pink, her mouth open.

"What, what, what?" She looked trapped again. "What? You-you must be joking? Make THESE TWO presentable? I can't - - "

"You can if I command it."

"But – but – but - - " Trahina looked at Qui-Gon as if he were a disease, "they're utterly unsuitable, they're rough and common and they're completely BROWN!"

*The Steward was looking a bit brown on the cheeks. "Your Grace . . . "

Nealdine sighed, her shoulders dropping. "Well, if you're not up to the task . . . I suppose I could have someone else help. Of course, it won't have any of your style. I was just hoping for something . . . . worthy of the occasion, but I suppose we'll have to do with whatever the droids can come up with."

"Worthy?" Trahina suddenly went dark, grayish magenta. "Style? Really? Style? Me? I hadn't thought you'd noticed."

"Of course, I've noticed, Trahina. You're my older sister." The Archbishop beamed bright green. "You've done so many . . . . amazing things. You arranged last night's reception didn't you? Ordered the decorations for the ceremony? I'm sure that if you personally see to the dressing of the new High Vicar of Wutah and his acolyte for their sacred duty today that your service will be entered into the Annals of the Zembu."

"The Annals, really? Do you think so?" Trahina's eyes looked a bit unfocused. But Vossi's face flared orange.

"You can't, Hina! You can't! You oppose this wedding and everything it will do! Don't forget the traditions trodden into the dirt of modernity!"

Trahina turned on her. "Oh, shut up, Vossi! We're talking about the Annals!"

Nealdine clapped her hands together with a big smile. "Well, then that's settled. You just go to your studio and get whatever you need ready and I'll send Master Qui-Gon and . . . " There was the briefest of pauses that told Qui-Gon that the Archbishop had forgotten Obi-Wan's name. ". . . his apprentice to you. But you'd better hurry, we don't have much time."

Trahina grimaced up at Qui-Gon, but she agreed. She left, dragging Vossi who complained the whole way.

The Archbishop exhaled a big sigh as soon as her sister was out of sight. But the Steward remained concerned.

"Your Grace, is it really wise to give her ANYthing this major to do with the wedding?"

"No it isn't." She folded her arms before her. "But it will keep her out of the way and unfortunately she's right; she has the authority to dictate what our new Vicar wears to the ceremony."

Her face went dark gray, like a storm cloud. "Master Qui-Gon, let us not pretend we don't know what your new purpose is." She paced before him, the orange gravel crunching underfoot, the Iron Garden warming in the brightening daylight.

"Ever since I announced that I would renounce my son's claim of succession with his marriage today, thus ending the hereditary line of Archbishops, I have been under a succession death threats. Nasty notes, bombs, poisoned boxes of candy, droid versions of me being thrown over cliffs. Any transport that I even look at develops mechanical problems. The hereditary Captain of the Guard swears that that it's just a coincidence that all his target practice holos look like me. My own Council has a betting pool on my life-expectancy. Because if I die before my son is properly disinherited, he would automatically become Archbishop-presumptive until he completes his training for the position. And as wonderful and sweet and thoughtful a person as he is, unlike my daughter, he is dumb enough to take the job. And stupid enough to become the pawn of the factions who think that the Zembu should go back to being absolute rulers, like back in the old days." She paused thoughtfully before turning to Qui-Gon.

"Why is it that people harken back to these old days, when everyone is supposed to have been been somehow smarter, prettier and overall better than they are now? If those people actually put as much energy into themselves as they do their nostalgic fantasies then they really might _be_ smarter, prettier and better than they are now." Standing before him, close enough to touch, she put her hands on her hips.

"So, I have ordained that the old days are over. An Archbishop hasn't taken over the government in over six-hundred years anyway. And it took decades to clean up the mess old Flammu made of it, too. So, there will be no more Zembu dictators." She pointed sternly at him.

"My son is getting married today, Master Qui-Gon, and you are going to make sure it happens."

**- - - End Part 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 5**

The studio of the Mistress of Protocol was a mess. Bright sunlight streamed down from high, tall windows onto clean, bright white walls. And mounds and mounds of boxes, canisters, rolls of fabric, spools of cord, colored flat sheets, flags, balls, racks and racks of hanging clothes, open tool cabinets along the walls, equipment jumbled on the shelves, clutter on the floor, overflowing trash bins and a smell of rotting fruit and flowers in the air.

A droid, a similar model to the Archbishop's, tottered up to them. It's 'head' was white, but every other section of it's outer casing was colored differently. Yellow upper arm, bright pink knee, shimmering blue hand, green calf, purple chest on the left. It even had one forearm and a hip with spots.

"Heeeeelllllllooooooooo," it greeted them with creaky, elongated syllables.

"We have been sent by the Archbishop to be made more presentable for the ceremony today."

"Oooooooooooh." It tilted its head, it's eye sensors scanning past them with disinterest. "Do you haaaaaaaaave an appooooooiiiiiintment?"

Qui-Gon crossly looked down at it. "The Archbishop sent us. We don't need one. Is Mistress Trahina here?"

"Ooooooooooohhhh," The droid drawled back lazily. "Do you want to see the Miiiiisstress then?"

The Jedi exchanged looks of surprised disgust. Qui-Gon pushed past the droid.

They wove through the paths in the junk. Someone spoke; metal things clattered, the noise coming from a wide doorway in the back of the studio. They headed there. Qui-Gon met Trahina as she was coming out, her arms laden with bundles of colorful clothes. Her face flushed pale pink, then brightened to purple and red.

"Well, it's about time!" She pushed past him and Obi-Wan, kicking things out of the way as she went. Vossi followed at a more languid pace, leering at Obi-Wan as she went.

"Aaaaggghhhh, aaaauggghhh." Trahina sputtered in frustration, spinning around. "BeeMee! BeeMee!"

"You caaaaaaalllllllled, Miiiistress?" The multi-colored droid wandered toward her.

"Why haven't you cleaned this place up, you stupid box-head? We have business, IMPORTANT business to do here!" The beaded scarf around her middle clicked as she waved her arms, her kaftan fluttering.

"Here Hina, let me." Vossi swept her long arm, pushing aside a heap, clearing a smooth plastoid white tabletop. The clothes lumped onto another pile on the floor. A canister of fat round beads spilled it's clattering contents which didn't get far before being stopped by the rest of the clutter. She then took out a small com and called for 'a little clean-up.'

"Oh, thank-you, dear." Trahina dumped the new heap on the table before turning on the Jedi. "Get over here, you two." Muttering, she circled, tugging and poking at them. She screwed up her face, orange with disgust.

"Oh, really. Does the Jedi Order just vomit up all their Knights looking like, like, like the residue from an old man's fart? Hmmmmmmm?" She continued circling and fussing at them. "I mean really, I don't know what my sister is thinking, that it is even possible for me to make you two look halfway decent."

"Just spray them allover green and get it over with, Hina. Maybe stick a few feathers in some of their crevices or something," Vossi said, obviously bored with the project, her exposed skin flawless orange. She sat down on a canister and crossed her long legs.

"Nooooooo, Vossi. I am still Mistress of Protocol around here." She bared her teeth at the Jedi. "I have to keep some standards. Even if my sister insists on stripping the whole Zembu Order bare of its rightful authority, I will NOT go down with a shoddy, slap-dash job, up there in front of everyone in the High Chapel, the Most Sacred Ground of the ENTIRE Zembu, mouthing the words of Our Demise to the ENTIRE CONVOCATION, with MY NAME ON IT!" She shouted the last part, but Vossi seemed unaffected by the outburst.

A household servitor droid appeared at the door with two more servitors and a couple of lifters. They were all spotless white plastoid like the other castle droids they had seen, though these servitors were broader in the body with thicker arms and the lifters had their silver eye sensors on stalks on one side of their flat carrying platforms. Trahina's droid, BeeMee drawled a question, but the household droids just ignored it and began straightening up the room; the lifters took away the full waste bins.

"The house staff is here. Did you ooooooorder anything?" BeeMee asked, uselessly standing in the middle of the activity.

"How about ordering a memory wipe for you?" Trahina muttered before turning back to look Qui-Gon up and down.

"Well, first lose those robes. We can't have you looking like a couple of giant, sagging logs, rotting upright," she ordered.

After a brief glance between them, they both shrugged out of their robes, letting them fall to the ground around their feet. She circled again, poking their tunics. Obi-Wan started when she jabbed her finger in his butt. Qui-Gon frowned at his apprentice. She had already poked Qui-Gon there three times; Obi-Wan should have seen it coming.

Feet planted before them, hands on her hips, Trahina shook her head. "A planet full of fashion mavens and the Jedi Order still sees fit to dress its people in rags. I suppose it must be traditional," she spat out, giving her droid an evil look which aimlessly looked about while the household staff droids efficiently moved things out of the way, vacuumed up debris, arranged equipment on shelves. One droid finished polishing a gleaming, white and silver scanning platform that had been previously hidden by all the junk piled on it. Trahina pointed at it and then at Qui-Gon.

"All right, clothes off, and get on. Let's have a look at what I'm dealing with."

Sighing and loosening his belt, Qui-Gon went while Obi-Wan collected their robes. He removed his belt and sat on the scanner stage to take his boots off. Obi-Wan took those as well and started a pile on a freshly cleared, square white table. But he took Qui-Gon's lightsaber when his Master handed it to him.

Getting up, he unwound his obi and tugged off tabbards and tunic, then undertunic. Standing on one foot and then the other, he took off his pants and undershorts together and then stepped onto the holo stage. It lit up under his bare feet.

Trahina stood staring up at him. Perhaps she hadn't expected him to completely disrobe. But Vossi gave him a feral grin, her face a brilliant green with red creeping up her neck and down her exposed torso.

"Oooooooooh, if he weren't that sickly brownish color, I know what I'd put on him."

Trahina tore her eyes away to look back at her. "What?"

"Me." One hand on her hip, she swiveled her body. "I know the prefect thing for him, Hina." She hurried off to the back room.

With a rough, exasperated sigh, Trahina slapped her hand down on the activation switch on the controls next to the scanner and Qui-Gon closed his eyes. After a few seconds the scanner computer dinged.

"Next!"

They waited while Obi-Wan peeled off the rest of his clothes. He did take everything off. He solemnly handed both lightsabers to Qui-Gon, who thought that he would have preferred to keep some cover, just in case Vossi came back to leer at him, too. But the stubborn set of his jaw told Qui-Gon that his Padawan did not want to be out-done by his Master.

Trahina slapped her hand down on the switch again. Bright yellow and blue lines cris-crossed over Obi-Wan's body and then vanished. Ding!

Qui-Gon put the lightsabers down long enough to put his undershorts back on, and hand Obi-Wan his. He would submit to being dressed for the sake of diplomacy, but he would keep his own underwear.

At the scanner control table, Trahina fretted over the glowing body forms above the holo-projector.

"Ooooooh, I suppose we have some things that might work . . . . . " Teeth clenched, she muttered while she turned the body forms around, repositioned the arms and legs. "At least there's something I can work with . . . . " Colored coverings appeared over the forms and shifted into other shapes. Big green shoulders melted into purple collars taller than the heads with flaring gold capes. Trahina moaned and spun the controls adding red shoes with big curly toes. Wide, wing-like pants became skirts that flared out, shrank and flattened down to orange and black striped pants.

"Hina!" Vossi emerged, stepping around the busy household droids that had already cleared and organized half the room. She held out cylindrical container and unscrewed the lid. "It's perfect. Definitely a cure for what ails them now, ha ha!"

"I don't know. . . . " Trahina tentatively poked a finger in the container. The tip came back a bright aqua blue-green, " . . . it's a bit daring, don't you think?"

"Oh dare, Hina! Dare!"

"Oh . . . . I don't know." She dithered between her friend and the two glowing, transparent body forms now spinning over the projector. "I don't know. I haven't even found anything suitable for them to wear. Look at this. He's too tall for the golden robes and too big in the shoulders for half the shirts we have. And his feet are gigantic - - "

"Oh, we can get the droids to modify anything we want," Vossi dismissed her complaints. "It's just clothes, we have whole storerooms full of them. But if we start with this . . . "

Qui-Gon folded his arms while the two women went back and forth about clothes, accessories, colors and cloth. Obi-Wan shrugged.

Qui-Gon went over to them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Vossi caught sight of Obi-Wan right behind him.

"Oooooh, aren't you a deletable little morsel." She grinned hungrily. Qui-Gon ignored her.

"Mistress Croton, we are very pressed for time. The ceremony is to take place at midday and your sister, the Archbishop, asked that we return as quickly as possible."

Affronted, Trahina drew back away from him, her face going yellow-orange. "My sister? My SISTER, the Archbishop? I think I know what my own sister, my flesh, blood and sinew FAMILY, wants just a bit better than some overgrown, hairy sack-wearer from the worst-dressed religious order in the galaxy! I," she thumped her chest dramatically, "am in charge here, thank-you very much! I am the Mistress of Protocol, Sister of the Flame of Octuurm and Councilor to the Archbishop - - "

Finally running out of patience, he raised his hand.

Stop. Talking.

Her mouth opened, but only a little gasp came out, her eyes wide and unfocused. Her face paled, the color going down as if it was water draining out of her. Her thoughts and emotions were always disjointed, living in the moment in the most fractious, chaotic way that her sensation-craving mind could find. They were easily swamped by the Force, her thoughts instantly snapping to his even before he spoke them.

"Your sister will be elated with whatever you choose, just as long as you accomplish your task quickly."

"Yes, yes, of course." Trahina's coloring mottled into changing grays, pale pinks, reds and greenish-yellow blotches.

"Hina?" Vossi's voice rose with a tone of alarm. Qui-Gon turned to her, waving his hand before her eyes. Her face and the exposed skin mottled, impressively matching her friend.

Qui-Gon took the canister from her and read the label. It was skin coloring, non-toxic and easily removed, but still colorfast after application. The label even advertised that the user could eat it if desired. Qui-Gon did not really like the color; it was too bright, but green and blue were 'happy' skin tones for Saffasti and this aqua seemed a reasonable combination of the two. And he had known Twi'leks with similar complexions. Given the time-constraint, it was a reasonable choice.

"Now," he addressed both women staring vacantly toward him, "you need to go to your clothing stores and retrieve complete outfits for me and my apprentice as quickly as you can." He held up a finger; Trahina and Vossi pointed their eyes at it. "They should be sensible pants, tunics and boots that cover most of the body and our heads, do not impede motion and are comfortable to wear. And," he added in deference to whatever rules of fashion that Trahina subscribed to, "should be complimentary to this." He held up the can of skin coloring.

"Yes, yes, yes, of course." "Oh, yes, yes, yes."

The two women vaguely nodded back to him and each other.

"You want to go do this, now."

Still nodding and mottled, they stumbled off past the household droids. The multi-colored BeeMee wandered after them. Obi-Wan took a step toward him, watching them disappear into the back room.

"You over-did it, Master. Do you really think they're going to bring back something we can wear?"

"We can only hope," he sighed. "But I did not 'over-do' it. I barely needed to exert my will on either one of them." He held up the can. "Come on."

They went to a wide wall mirror, cleared of boxes by the servitor droids still re-ordering the room, sorting, folding and putting things back on shelves. The lifters had made several trips removing trash and broken equipment. They were remarkably efficient, making minimal noises as they worked and shifted things about. Obviously, they were not 'traditional' Zembu droids.

Qui-Gon held the can for both of them while they rubbed it into their faces, necks, forearms and hands. It was cool on the skin at first, but warmed up quickly with a faint scent of plants after a rain. Qui-Gon rubbed it into his beard and mustache turning them a dark aqua blue. Obi-Wan watched with concern.

"Do we need to put this in our hair?" He touched his thin Padawan's braid hanging from behind his right ear.

"Hopefully they will bring back something suitable for covering our heads." Qui-Gon brushed his long brown hair back over his shoulder with the back of one hand that had dried. Obi-Wan had far less to worry about with his short hair, braid and tail lock on the back of his head.

They had just finished applying the color when Trahina and Vossi came bustling back, arms loaded with clothes. Another droid, one of the more efficient household models, followed with even more clothes and boxes. They loaded up everything onto a large freshly cleared white table. The mottling had gone down considerably in their skin tones. They were mostly patchy of purple and pale yellow. Neither one of them had enough attention span to be strongly influenced for long, but they had gotten fixated on their task and brought back far more than they needed.

Qui-Gon stepped up to the table and started going through shoe boxes, tossing the unacceptable ones behind him. The cleaning droids could clean them up; they didn't have time to be neat. The droid that had just come in introduced itself as Zed-Oh-Five; it was programed for all forms of Humanoid personal appearance engineering.

"All choices have been pre-selected for your body sizes, however, the Mistress was a bit vague about what you needed to wear and the occasion you needed it for." The droid seemed quite unconcerned with their appearance, but it likely attended to most people in a similar state of undress.

"We require a complete set of clothes for both of us," Qui-Gon extended a hand toward Obi-Wan, "for the marriage ceremony today."

Behind the droid, Trahina held up to her body a huge, tent like red and pink robe with jeweled heavy gold brocade on the front and down the sleeve. Vossi expressed approval. Trahina threw it aside and dove into the pile for something else.

"Will you be officiating in any way, or just attending the service?"

"I will be performing the service, and my apprentice will be attending me."

"Ah. And your clerical rank?"

"I am the new High Vicar of Wutah," he answered simply.

The droid's head jerked, side to side a small bit, just enough for it's expressionless face to convey surprise. "Congratulations on your promotion. That position has been vacant for some time. But Wutah is a rather cold climate; would you prefer warm weather attire?"

Qui-Gon shook his head. "That will not be necessary. The clothes will be for today only. They must also cover myself and my apprentice with only the hands and face exposed, including something to completely cover our hair. They must also be sturdy enough to accommodate heavy physical activity."

"That is an unusual request, Sir. However traditional rules for marriage ceremonies are extraordinarily broad. I believe I can accommodate you." The droid bowed it's head and only glanced back at the piles of clothes that Trahina and Vossi now squabbled over before hurrying off to the back room.

"Do you think there will be an assassination attempt during the service?"

"The factions that wish to do the Archbishop harm have vowed to stop it. We must be prepared for anything."

**

* * *

- - - End Part 5**


	6. Chapter 6

**MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 6**

At the other end of the table, Trahina shouted and held up a sparkling blue shirt with sleeves hanging down twice as long as the body, while Vossi waved a handful of diaphanous, white scarves. They seemed to have forgotten about the Jedi entirely. Elsewhere in the room, the household droids continued their work while their masters made more of a mess of the clothes. Qui-Gon picked up a few items but there wasn't a single thing that he considered wearable.

"Is the Archbishop really serious about wanting our help if she sends us here to waste time with her sister?" Obi-Wan complained with a plaintive high note. Qui-Gon looked down at him and smiled.

Unclothed and blue-green from the neck up, the whites of Obi-Wan's blue-gray eyes stood out from the darker colored skin around them. Except for the long thin braid hanging over his bare and hairless chest, he looked five years younger. He laid his arm over Obi-Wan's shoulders.

"Patience, my young apprentice. I sense that the Archbishop knows what she is doing. Do you not?"

He frowned. "I sense that the Archbishop thinks that she knows what she is doing."

Still smiling, Qui-Gon shook his head. Always teaching a Master was. "And what do you sense in the Force?"

The whites of his eyes vanished as Obi-Wan closed them. Calm . . . . calm. He could feel his Padawan's thoughts vanish into the Force. Excellent . . . . but . . . . Obi-Wan cast his focus a bit too broadly, taking in too much around him. It seemed to be his nature. Only experience would teach him to concentrate better on the moment.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and exhaled. He looked unhappy. "I sense nothing, Master. Other than normal unhappiness and expectations for the wedding. And the obvious disturbance here."

Trahina was now extolling the virtues of green diagonal stripes on black while Vossi held up two tall, pointed hats that Qui-Gon would have found a way to 'accidentally' destroy before wearing one. He took his arm off Obi-Wan's shoulder and then belatedly checked for any blue-green smudges where his hand had been. But there were none.

Zed-Oh-Five returned with several choices of clothes and accessories, along with a pair of comfortable short, blue-green boots for each of them. The droid had only brought pants and shirts in green, blue and shades of aqua.

"No." Qui-Gon put aside the blue ones with jeweled trim and metallic flower patterns. Obi-Wan looked interested, but Qui-Gon was not, so he eliminated them first.

"No." The green pants and shirts had narrow, horizontal blue stripes and pleats going down the legs and sleeves. And the fabric was stiff and crinkled when it moved.

"These will do." The aqua clothes were the plainest, with only a subtle triangle embossing in the soft fabric. The sleeves and pant legs narrowed at the ends but otherwise they were loose fitting; perfect for fighting, if necessary. And they were comfortable enough to sleep in. It was possible that this was their purpose, but with some temporary, decorative closures at the collars supplied by the droid, they were acceptable.

Most of the head coverings that Zed-Oh-Five brought were veils or cylindrical hats that wouldn't cover all their hair. But there was a blue skull cap that stretched to cover up everything after Obi-Wan untied his tail lock and tucked in his braid. Qui-Gon picked a puffy cap with an elastic band. It was bright, shimmering blue, but he could comfortably fit all his hair into it. Then they had to send the droid back to the storeroom to get belts to clip their lightsabers to. Zed-Oh-Five found some that matched their boots

Trahina and Vossi apparently gave up on all the clothes they had brought in and were dragging fabric rolls off the shelves. The household droids continued cleaning and putting things away around them.

Finally, Zed-Oh-Five draped wide iridescent white stoles with curling green patterns on the ends over their necks, though the decoration on Qui-Gon's was more elaborate. The droid stepped back, appraising the result.

"It is highly irregular, but acceptable, Sir. However, as the Vicar of Wutah, you are expected to carry the Keys of the Vaults of Balstule."

"The Archbishop's Steward is seeing to that."

"Very good, Sir. My I be of further service?"

Qui-Gon pointed toward the scanner stage. "Please have our clothes taken to our suite."

The droid bowed, took out a com unit and called for a pick-up, and then began folding their clothes into a neat pile.

The room was no longer nearly as messy as it had been, thanks to the droids. But the Mistress of Protocol and her friend seemed to be working hard to return it to that state as they vigorously complained about not having enough yellow in their stores. It looked almost like a strange competition with the droids cleaning and tidying and the masters rummaging and throwing clothes on the floor.

"Do you think, Master, that they will notice if we just leave?" Obi-Wan asked.

"No." He took a step - -

Both Jedi froze, their hands going to their lightsaber hilts. There was a threat coming.

"Darling! Darling! Darling!" A short Saffasti man with shiny red hair, his skin a muted pink in distress, rushed in. He wore a long blue robe with sleeves like flags that fluttered as he rushed to Trahina. "How could you? How could you? Helping your sister in this wanton destruction of our traditions?"

They clasped each other and kissed cheeks in a frenzy.

"I know, I know, I know, it's AWFUL, what I must do. But my sister is the Archbishop and she ORDERED me to do it! It's my DUTY! My DUTY!"

"Oh, we are all slaves to duty!" The man sympathized with nearly as much drama. "When I heard that Swigley had bowed out, I thought that THIS was divine guidance. Surely your sister would see the error of her decision. But now she's got some stand-in to do the deed?"

Another person, who had been waiting at the door, entered. The eyes of both Jedi fixed on him. He was a Derthras, Humanoid with short antenna at his temples, angular light-brown face and metallic gray hair. He wore a crisp body suit, dark green in the body, fading to pale green on his arms and legs.

"Brau!" Vossi's skin went bright red and she ran to the tall, broad-shouldered Derthras. They were close to the same height and she curled her arm around his waist and kissed him. He returned it, but with nowhere near the same ardor, as if he was just being polite. His eyes scanned the room and stopped at the two people watching him. Qui-Gon put his hand back down at his side; Obi-Wan did as well.

"So," Brau smoothly untangled himself from Vossi and walked toward them. "You're standing in for the Bishop of Swigley for this?"

This was the man who had threatened Swigley's life. And he had enjoyed doing it.

Qui-Gon inclined his head politely. "Yes. I am."

"That is . . . . an interesting costume." Brau looked him up and down.

"It is improvised. The Mistress of Protocol here found my and my apprentices' clothes unacceptable, so she and her friend have been helping us find something more appropriate."

Trahina and the short man approached together, their eyes wide, their skin pastel pink.

"That is a bit daring, even for you Trahina dear, don't you think?"

Trahina sputtered. "Well, yes, a bit. But, but, but this is a wedding and you know my sister. And you know me. Daring is what I do, dear," she finished, finally deciding to assume credit for the Jedi's outfits.

"I picked out the color," Vossi almost growled, baring her teeth at Brau. But he kept his attention on Qui-Gon as he stopped less than an arm's length before him.

This person would kill even if others did not pay for him to do it.

"There are rumors that the Bishop of Swigley's canceled because his life was threatened."

Qui-Gon had no doubt that this was the same low tone that Brau had used to threaten the Bishop of Swigley with.

"Really?" Qui-Gon remained still, intimidated by Brau's closeness. Obi-Wan watched, calm, but his expression too aggressive. Brau noticed it; he liked to be challenged. Killing satisfied him best if his victim fought back. His thoughts were dark and easily sensed because he was so proud of being a predator.

"Yes. With these threats against the Archbishop's life, anyone helping her could easily be at risk as well."

Brau's fingers flexed at his sides. He carried no weapon; the castle security had done its job, but he could kill quickly with his bare hands. He liked that.

Clearing his mind of all but the Force, Qui-Gon gazed back at the killer . . . . . . . . . the moment passed. Brau stepped back, his expression now more curious than threatening.

"You are not Saffasti, I see," he spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "The Archbishop couldn't just have anybody to do this. What is your position?"

"I am the High Vicar of Wutah," Qui-Gon answered pleasantly. "As of this morning," he added.

"Really?" Brau continued to appraise them. Obi-Wan circled around to his other side, but Brau didn't seem to think it important. He had not been at the previous night's reception, so he had not seen them before and the stoles around their necks were hanging in front of their lightsabers. "So, what are your qualifications for that position?"

"He doesn't have any that I've seen," Trahina grumbled, pushing her way past Brau to glare at them. "At least anyone with the right qualifications wouldn't go walking around in those ghastly clothes even to go garbage picking. Kentard," she waved back to little man in the blue robe, "you would not believe what I had to do to get these two even half way presentable. Just unbelievable. But now," She spread her arms and her kaftan wide, "they're making a statement."

"Oh, you are an artiste, Trahina, my dead," Kentard agreed, his face glowing green.

"Brilliant, Hina, brilliant," Vossi held a green fist up in support as well.

She nodded back to her friends and put a dark green hand to her chest. "Yes, I am." Turning back to them, she shook her head. "I manged to take the refuse from the J - - "

"Trahina!"

They all turned.

The Archbishop, now with golden robes hanging over her enormous body, came in, followed by the Steward, in less ornate golden robes, and his droid.

"Trahina, what are you doing? Laying out a whole wardrobe for them? We've got a wedding to put on." She slowed down as soon as she saw the Jedi. "What have you . . . ." Her words faded out.

Nealdine stopped, staring up at Qui-Gon in shock, her mouth open, her skin whitish pick. A similarly colored Steward cringed next to her.

And behind her, a frantically gesturing Kentard mouthed, 'Do it! Do it, now!' to Brau.

! Hhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Brau had excellent reflexes. He froze as soon as their lightsabers activated, his hands outstretched toward the Archbishop within killing distance of her.

Qui-Gon's green lightsaber blade glowed brightly in the air just above Brau's right arm. Obi-Wan's blue blade was poised to cut upward on Brau's left.

Shocked even more, their faces paling almost white, the Archbishop and her Steward backed up. Trahina had fallen backward onto a pile of clothes. Vossi looked up from under a table.

"NO PEOPLE-CHOPPING!" Nealdine shouted.

The Jedi remained in place. So did Brau. He swallowed, his eyes losing their predatory gleam, his thoughts now only on escape.

"Master Qui-Gon," Nealdine snarled, her face fading into bright orange, "did you or did you not swear to not chop people up? At least FOR TODAY?"

"Your Grace, this man is a paid assassin and he intends to kill you."

The Archbishop drew in an angry breath. "And you think I do not have resources for handling this kind of thing?"

Snik-snik-click-snik-click-snik-click-snik-click-snik-click.

Every single household servitor droid in the room, including Zed-Oh-Five and the two lifters, suddenly had a small white blaster pointed at Brau. Except for the one servitor that clamped a plastoid hand on Kentard's arm as the little man tried to sneak out of the room.

Qui-Gon glowered at Brau. The Derthras killer had mastered his fear. And given up on killing the Archbishop. For now. He and Obi-Wan pulled their lightsabers away, but kept the blades on. He looked at Nealdine.

"You have a problem with lightsabers, but not with droids and blasters?"

The orange faded from her skin-tone a bit. "They're only droids. And their weapons are on stun." She warily eyed Brau as two servitor droids grabbed his arms. "Most of them, at least. I think."

Qui-Gon deactivated his lightsaber.

"That is what they all say," he commented, getting only a huff in response from Nealdine. He knew that the droids would not have been fast enough.

Stepping back, Obi-Wan re-attached his saber to the clip on his blue-green belt and allowed the Steward to take charge of the droids, Brau and Kentard, who gibbered that he had nothing to do with anything that had happened.

"What, what, what, what is going on?" Trahina demanded, stumbling to her feet while Vossi crawled out from under the table. "What, what, what are those glowing things? What is this about people-chopping? There will be no people-chopping in my studio!"

Vossi had gone magenta. "I didn't have anything to do with that," she said rapidly, hand to her chest. "I mean, he was just a quickie - - "

"I am sure you didn't," Nealdine cut her off loudly. "And the spirits know he's not the worst one you've dragged in, but you're still going to have to talk to the Steward and the Captain of the Guard. After the wedding."

"What?" Trahina clutched her friend's arm as if the droids were going to come back and take her away. "What has Vossi done? She hasn't done anything. I protest!"

"Oh, don't let them take me, Hina. I didn't do anything!"

"Don't worry dear, I still have SOME power around her, even after my sister strips the whole Zembu bare - - "

Qui-Gon walked forward and held his hand up to the two cowering women. Immediately they went silent, the skin mottling into multi-colors.

"You need to get dressed, so you can look your best for the wedding. And you need to go now."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes." "Must dash, can't be late." The two stumbled over each other leaving the room.

When he turned back to the Archbishop, he found her speechless with surprise again. Then green flushed her cheeks and spread outward. She smiled up at him.

"Master Qui-Gon, I had no idea that Jedi powers included the ability to shut my sister up. I think that might qualify you for sainthood. But we do have a wedding to do and I need to run through the service with you." She started to lead him out but he stopped her.

"Of course, your Grace, however, I gather from your first reaction that there is a problem with our clothing?"

"Oh," she put her hand to her mouth, grinning up at him, the green of her face deepening. "I suppose. Tell me, just who picked out that color?"

"Vossi."

"Of course she did. Well, obviously you're not aware of some of the more . . . . intimate details about us, but with your height, that color, that outfit, plus that silly hat you're wearing. . . .it makes you look like a giant phallus."

"Oh." Qui-Gon pressed his lips together unhappily. Obi-Wan was grinning. "Well, we can certainly change it - - "

"No, no, no," Nealdine cut him off. "We don't have time now." She stepped back and admired him.

"I suppose there will be a few people at the service, who've got their knees crossed too tightly, who won't like it. But mostly everybody is just going to think that I'm desperate for grandchildren." She grabbed his arm and led him toward the door with Obi-Wan following. "I am, by the way. So these vestments might be just right."

They left the studio.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 6**


	7. Chapter 7

**MEMBERS OF THE WEDDING**

by ardavenport

**- - - Part 7**

* * *

The wedding went well.

There were no surprises, no more assassins. Qui-Gon sensed a strong disappointment in the Archbishop, when she complained about the traditionalists being 'all talk and no grallets' at the reception. She had wanted a chance for her droids to demonstrate that they could be as fast and effective as Jedi. Qui-Gon graciously accepted her discontent with no comment.

The collective gasp from the large crowd when they first saw Qui-Gon ascend the steps to the raised dais under the flower-covered canopy had not been to his liking. But his only task in the whole ceremony was to lead the the glowing green and giggling couple in their vows and declare them 'united in bliss'. Nealdine and her priests did everything else amidst a splendor of scented flowers, hanging streamers, flags and a flock of colorful floater droids that prompted the crowd in the High Chapel when it was time for them to cheer, sing and stomp. And the Archbishop, standing at a high podium, pronounced her son dis-inherited at the end of the service. The crowd erupted in shouts of joy and derision competing for maximum volume, the air trembling with the sound.

Obi-Wan had even less to do; his only task was to stand nearby and hold a bulky golden chain from which dangled an enormous set of keys. But he grinned broadly at the crowd's first reaction to Qui-Gon's appearance. That was also not to his Master's liking.

At the reception afterward, where Qui-Gon was obliged to bow and accept the line of well-wishers with the Archbishop and her family, a bleary-eyed Senator Chochard marched up to Qui-Gon and announced that he looked like a huge smustick before staggering off to drink himself senseless again. But most of the people just grinned up at him, elbowed Nealdine, winked and congratulated her on her future grandchildren. Obi-Wan rattled the keys whenever this happened until Qui-Gon gave him a cross glare.

He had hoped to leave the party after that last duty, but Nealdine demanded that he stay near, just in case she needed him for that, 'shutting up my sister thing.' But Trahina and Vossi made themselves conspicuously absent.

Qui-Gon patiently waited out the celebration until it got dark when Nealdine invited him up to a quiet dinner in a tower room. It turned out to be a very pleasant meal with just him, Obi-Wan, the Archbishop and her Consort in the dimly lit tower room, the lights and sounds of partying coming in through the windows from below. They talked about the Force, the Jedi and the Zembu and the misconceptions people had about each order.

Over a desert of candied nuts, the Bishop leaned forward, her face gray and serious.

"The Prelate of Bzzoff-Kun told me this story. I don't really understand it and the Prelate said that only a Jedi could understand its mystery. So, since you're here, I thought I'd like to try it out on you."

Qui-Gon shrugged. "I will do what I can to help."

"Well." Nealdine gathered her thoughts. "A little green man walks into a bar on Thuradan-Toom. He's very small and slow and nobody notices him. Until he almost gets to the bar when a waiter with a full tray of drinks trips over him. Everything on his tray goes flying and crashes to the ground.

"Well, the little man is a bit startled at first, but he looks around and sees all the drinks and scattered cups about. And you know what? He just tsk, tsks and raises his hand. . . . and suddenly the tray and all the cups fly back up into the air. The drinks stream back into their cups, perfectly mixed again; even the little stirring sticks with the sparkly stars on them are back in their places. The waiter is a bit startled, but he quickly recovers and moves on.

"Two Thuradans at the bar are so impressed by this bit of magic that they offer to buy the old man an ale right on the spot. The little green man nods and the bartender brings the drink, but instead of taking a seat, he hops up onto the stool, then up onto the bar, right next to this enormous mug that is almost as big as he is, and he hops right up on top of it. And he sucks up the whole thing up in one gulp, through his ass.

"Well, these two Thuradans and the bartender are really impressed now. So, they order the little man another drink. And he does the same thing. Slurps it all up in one gulp through his ass. Gives a little burp when he hops off the mug, but otherwise he looks quite fine.

"Now, one of the Thuradans wonders if he does this with other things, too. So, he offers the little man a bowl of chips. And this being a Thuradan bar, you know that those chips have already passed through someone's digestive system at least once. So, since they already came out of someone else's ass it seems perfectly reasonable that he would suck them up that way like the ale.

"But the little green man looks a little offended. He picks up a chip, takes a bite, gives the Thuradan a stern look and says - - -

" 'What? Backwards, you think I am?' "

"Hahahahaha!" The laugh came out of Qui-Gon spontaneously, quite caught off-guard by the sudden ridiculous image of Master Yoda sucking up an ale through his ass and eating Thuradan chips. Next to him, Obi-Wan laughed as well. But the Archbishop looked a little peeved.

"Why would anyone think that joke was funny?" Consort Amitig only shrugged, not understanding the story, either.

The Jedi kept laughing. Qui-Gon wiped at a corner of his eye.

"I don't understand." Nealdine shook her head and sighed. "But you know." She rested her chin in her hand, elbow on the table. "I rather like having you around. Now that I think of it, you might make a very good High Vicar of Wutah."

Qui-Gon stopped smiling. "You know, your Grace, that is impossible. My vows to the Jedi Order take precedence."

"Oh, but it's not so very bad being part of the Zembu Order. And I am the Supreme Archbishop, which means you do have some obligation to me; I can always ask the Jedi Temple to loan you to us for awhile, to help with our transition. And that 'shutting up my sister' thing you've got is very nice indeed."

Qui-Gon did not think that she was really serious. But he did not want to take any chances.

! Hhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Suddenly cleaved in two, an end table by the wall, and the pile of dirty dishes on it, crashed to the ground. Qui-Gon spun his lightsaber around once, the shadows in the room wildly shifting with the flourish of the green blade. He switched it off, clipping it back on the blue-green belt he still wore.

The Archbishop glowered, her cheeks orange. She pointed sternly at him.

"All right, you're out."

**

* * *

###### END ######**

**

* * *

Note:** This story was first posted on tf.n on 17-Jan-2011

**Disclaimer:** All characters and situations belong to George and Lucasfilm; I'm just playing in their sandbox.


End file.
